Fame and War
by VirendraLione
Summary: A woman who goes by the name Elle (among others) arrives, rather eventfully in Paris and eventually comes to meet the formidable foursome. Meanwhile, the Musketeers are charged with investigating rumours that the plans for a new and dangerous weapon have found their way into the city. Porthos x OC (I couldn't keep it a secret for much longer :P)
1. Sauveur

**Disclaimer:**_ I do not own The Musketeers in any way shape or form. I only own the Original Characters I created and the plot. That is all. _

**Fame and War.**

**_Upon arriving in Paris rather eventfully, Elle meets the Musketeers. She soon reveals herself to be a woman of many names and the boys are understandably both intrigued and alarmed at this woman's desire to remain so secretive. It's nothing personal, she says; she's just running from her past, but what exactly is her business in Paris? _**

**Chapter One: Sauveur.**

She could handle the ambiguity of the icy void around her, the thievery of the air from her lungs by the churning swells, even the blindly tumultuous rise and fall of her last few moments of life.

What she could not handle, however, was the guilt.

Maybe this was her punishment. Maybe there was a God, after all. Maybe he had watched her intently, only putting a stop to her actions at the very point she believed she might actually succeed. The only consolation was that this would all be over in a matter of seconds.

Her torso ached with the nigh impossible task of sustaining the last precious gulp of air in her lungs and she looked around for any glimmer of hope that may be afforded her; a guiding light, a piece of rope, a barrel from the ship.

Alas, there was nothing.

She clawed upwards at her best guess, but found no purchase. She turned and flailed in the opposite direction, hoping that she had been wrong in the first instance. Something made itself known to her here, though it was not a fortunate discovery. If she had to guess she would have said it was an old chest, heavy and laden with either food or personal effects. Certainly not jewels or riches; she hadn't gotten that far yet. Whatever it was, it had attacked her; landing her a blow to the back of her head, forcing the last breath from her and bidding her cease in her primal struggle for survival.

She tumbled then, limp like a discarded marionette.

One more for the scores that found their eternal rest in the folds of the shroud of the Seine.

* * *

Monsieur Purcell despised the driving rain and bitter wind that came with storms of this calibre and he had been loathe to leave his hearthside and venture out into such a tempest, but the storm had been sudden and unpredicted and as such, posed a significant threat to Purcell's wanting vessel. So, the fisherman had had no choice, but to brave the downpour with nought but a lantern and a length of rope to arms.

After he had secured the boat to the best of his abilities, Purcell had taken a moment to watch the swells from the safety of the river bank.

Occasionally, waves such as these would confuse the shoals of fish and see them leaping to safety, only to dash their little heads on the decks of ships or asphyxiate on the embankments until morning. It was a rare occurrence, but something that fascinated Purcell and it pleased him to wait and see if on this night some such event might present itself.

He held the lantern at an arms' length, sweeping it from side to side in increasing frustration, until the rainwater bit at his neck and hands so that he could no longer feel them. With a disappointed grunt Purcell turned away, picking his way up the bank, turning back only a moment later when he heard something break the surface with a deep _glug_. The fisherman's brow knitted together as he cast the lantern light forth and was met with the sight of a young woman, grazing the hull of his vessel.

Purcell leapt onto the unsteady craft, grappled for the boathook and proceeded to lever the dead weight out of the river.

Once the strange woman had been brought aboard, Purcell took a moment to study her; she appeared to be younger than himself and, even though her pallid complexion was probably a gift from the Seine, he felt she possessed a purity and vibrancy that had not seen in an age. Her waterlogged brunette locks clung to her high cheekbones and rounded jaw in places and there was a miniscule smear of red on her paled lips, though whether this was paint or blood, Purcell could not fathom. Her clothes were her most peculiar feature; in place of the customary dress of her gender, she wore a white cotton shirt, and dunn coloured trousers and boots. A black and burgundy, brocade waistcoat was buttoned atop the shirt and the hilt of a small silver and black stone dagger peeked out from the cuff of her right boot.

The fisherman pressed two fingers to the woman's neck and was relieved to feel the thread of a pulse there. He immediately rolled her onto her side and patted her hard on the back. After a few moments, the woman spluttered, expelling the water from her lungs and drinking in several selfish mouthfuls of air.

Purcell tilted his head a little as his rescued woman opened her eyes, panicked and unfocused. He found himself smiling at their hue; snow sky blue. Cold, crisp, delicate. She gave the slightest hint of a smile before falling back into unconsciousness.

The fisherman gathered the woman up in his arms and then stooped awkwardly for the lantern. Trepidation slowed his efforts to return to land since he did not wish to slip and return the woman to the thralls of the river. And, before very long, he was picking his way gingerly up the embankment, his charge held close to his chest in a superfluous attempt to keep her dry.

* * *

**_So, that was the first chapter of yet another fic started when I've others on the go, but hey, how could I possibly resist after watching The Musketeers? I believe that program is going to be on my all-time favourites list in no time at all..._**

**_Anyway, I hope you enjoyed this chapter. I'll hopefully be updating it soon. Thanks for reading!_**


	2. Pécheur

**Chapter Two: Pécheur.**

Purcell stood over his charge, head lilted to the side in silent scrutiny. He had arranged her on the bench from his table, before the hearth fire in the hope that the warmth may revive her. So far, it had only seen fit to crisp the visible edges of the shirt she wore and summon a dry, straw-like quality to the few strands of hair that it could reach.

Decisively, Purcell knelt beside his charge, arcing an arm over her stomach and taking hold of the farthest side of the bench. With the other he gripped the edge nearest to him and pushed. The result was the offensive screech of wood on flagstone and the lull of the young woman's head to finally face the flame.

Purcell took a moment to gaze upon her before he disentangled himself from the structure and was pleased to see at last, some colour returning to his rescued woman's countenance.

Taking a breath, Purcell released his grip on the bench and fumbled, instead, for the buttons of the woman's waistcoat. He had opened it almost to her naval before a sharp edge of silver pressed itself against his throat.

The pair rose to their feet in tense synchrony and Purcell was not surprised to find the woman far more graceful than he. He straightened awkwardly from his kneeling position, all the while wary of the proximate knife edge. It took him what seemed like an age to stand, but when he was completely upright, he gave an uncertain smile and held his hands up in a gesture of surrender.

The woman regarded him with narrowed and calculating eyes. Eyes which Purcell, if he had not known any better, could have sworn did not belong to the woman who had smiled to him on his boat. They were no longer pure and crisp, but darker in all senses of the word and held an astute rage, almost as if she had seen all this before.

"S'il vous plaît, Mademoiselle…" Purcell croaked, "Lower your dagger; you've nothing to fear from me."

To the fisherman's dismay, the dagger remained where it was, the woman responding only with a short downwards glance to her flayed doublet and an eyebrow raised incredulously.

"Please, I was only attempting to remove your waistcoat so that I could dry it by the fire." Purcell offered, finally lowering his hands. Silence fell around them then, the woman seemingly engaged in her thoughts.

"Where am I? And how did I come to be here?" She asked finally in a voice thick with salt water.

"You were nearly drowned in the Seine. I rescued you and brought you here, to my home." The fisherman then attempted a courteous bow, but was all the while acutely aware of the hum of silver on his chin, "Monsieur Davin Purcell, at your service."

The woman did not seem to care what her saviour's name was and instead turned her focus to a glancing survey of the room in which she found herself. It was in fairly good repair, but simply furnished; aside from a few ancient patches of red or blue, the walls were devoid of colour. They appeared a sand yellow, but this hue flickered in synchrony with the florid tendrils behind her. There was a door and a shuttered window in the wall to her left and an archway leading to a staircase in the one opposite. Other than herself, the man and the bench from which she had just risen, there was only a small square dining table, a dresser and three trunks stacked in the corner. Her gaze lingered on the trunks a moment and she noticed a drip of white lace and blue cotton from one of the unhinged corners.

"Might I have your name, Mademoiselle?" pried Purcell, causing the woman's gaze to fall upon him, once again.

She did not answer right away and instead took a breath, deliberating before finally offering a single word.

"Vivienne."

"Well, Vivienne, might I offer you a bed for the night and some dry clothes? The storm, I dare say, will not pass before morning."

Purcell was relieved to see Vivienne lower the weapon then, returning it to the cuff of her boot deftly. She heaved a resigned sigh and fixed her saviour with kindly eyes and a grateful smile.

"I would be glad of some dry clothing, monsieur, but I couldn't impose on you the night."

Purcell looked a little crestfallen at this, but nodded nevertheless, crossing to the trunks in the corner. He opened the very one that had caught Vivienne's eye before and retrieved from it a bundle of azure fabric, trimmed in ivory lace.

"This should do you for now at least."

He placed the roll into her arms and gave a nod to the staircase in the archway, "There is a bed chamber up there where you might dress and I will see if I can find a mantle. That is, if you still have your heart set upon leaving."

Vivienne was about to confirm that she did intend to leave, but by the time she had opened her mouth, Purcell had turned away from her and had busied himself with the trunks once again.

* * *

The bedchamber complimented the wanting living space below, perfectly, following suit with its bland walls and sparse furniture. There was nought but a bed, a worn but sturdy chest of drawers and a standing mirror, blemished with age in the space. This room, contrary to the flagstone floor below, had dark wood floorboards that creaked at the slightest pressure. Initially the sound grated, but after she figured out why, she turned her thoughts to reminiscence. She remembered the ship, the crew, the captain. Before the disappearance and before the mistake that may, if she had not been so lucky as to be rescued, have claimed her life.

She donned the dress with a degree of chagrin, lacing up the bodice to the best of her ability. It was slightly loose around her bust, but it would do until she could source something else, or until her usual attire was dry. For lack of other options, Vivienne pulled her sodden boots back on, all at once glad to feel the familiar tingle of the dagger against her right leg. She took up a brush from the dresser top and began to work at her matted tresses by the dwindling candle light, wincing a little as she grazed the tender flesh at the back of her head. She moved to stand before the mirror, not entirely impressed with the ensemble and fought hard the urge to turn as a floorboard creaked behind her.

"I found a cloak, for you." Came Purcell's voice followed by a flurry of dark heavy cloth as he tossed the item to the bed. Vivienne said nothing, expecting the fisherman to leave. When he did not, she found herself turning, brow furrowed.

Purcell remained silent, watching as the woman before him returned the brush to its rightful place and outstretched a hand for the mantle. Almost without thinking, he too grabbed at the cloth and held it taut between them.

"Pardon my actions, Mademoiselle, but…it seems to me that you are being decidedly ungrateful."

At this statement, Vivienne released her grip on the cloth. Purcell continued with a sardonic laugh.

"I was selfless enough to pull you from the river, shelter you and dress you and you have not so much as offered a simple 'Merci'…"

Vivienne took a breath and gave a slow, thoughtful nod, "Ah, but Monsieur Purcell, what if I did not wish to be saved? Would you still expect me to be grateful then?"

Purcell fell silent at this and faltered, releasing his grasp on the cloak. Vivienne seized her chance and swept the mantle around and over herself with a flourish. She took a few steps in the direction of the doorway, pausing to afford the fisherman a polite curtsey, in a pantomime of false gratitude.

"Merci, Monsieur Purcell, for your selflessness and hospitality. I am truly grateful to you for preserving my life and I shall ever be in your debt. If our paths should cross again, ask of me what you will and I shall endeavour to repay you, but for now, good sir; Bonsoir et Adieu."

Vivienne had only just reached the top stair when she felt one hand curl around her left wrist and another upon her collarbone.

A startled yelp escaped her lips as she came face to face with the wall at such a force that it knocked the breath from her lungs. For a second, she was in the Seine's embrace again, but this time the pressure was different, this time it was tangible and this time, she could fight back.

Vivienne winced as her assailant twisted her arm and brought his face but an inch from her own. She could feel his hot breath on her cheek and in her ear as a venomous growl slithered from his lips, "How dare you mock me."

* * *

**_I just wanted to take a moment here to thank all those of you who have reviewed, are following or have added this fic to your favourites lists. It means the world to me, truly it does and your kind words keep me writing._**

**_I just hope I can live up to your expectations in the upcoming chapters. _**

**_Thank you again!_**


	3. Perdant

**Chapter Three: Perdant.**

Contrary to her initial assumptions of the man, Vivienne found Purcell to be surprisingly strong. He secured her against the wall with his bodyweight and held her arms in a vice like grip. She tried in vain to move them - if only to push herself a little way from the wall so that she may breathe better - but they were hindered by his human shackles. Vivienne's heart sank and a tear crept unbidden from her left eye, mounting her cheekbone and making its way slowly to her jaw, passing just inches from Purcell's lips.

"Please sir..." She breathed, her voice crackling with the threat of the despairing deluge, "I am sorry…"

She tensed, listening with her body for any clues as to what would happen next. Her wrists heard the loosening of Purcell's grip, her back the whisper of his cooling absence and her cheek, the sole itch of her own tears, unwavering without his breath.

Purcell's fingers still crushed the lace at her sleeve, but seemed willing, at least, to let her move a little. The man turned her, deftly yet with an unnerving haste and Vivienne soon found her back against the chill plaster, her arms held against it in a forced gesture of surrender.

"Please forgive me." She mewed, bidding her sodden orbs find the floorboards. She watched her sorrowful tears leap and silently shatter amidst the minute ravines hewn by age and footfall.

Purcell allowed her this for a moment or two, before moving his hand from her left wrist and seizing her chin in his grasp instead. He bid her face him and drank in her tears, smiling wide and triumphant.

Then his brow furrowed; the grief-stricken expression on Vivienne's face twisted into a smile of pure malice. Her eyes narrowed in determination and, before Purcell knew what was happening, there was a blow to his side that knocked the wind from him.

He fell to the boards, bewildered and sore and only half aware of the ungrateful woman's sweeping proximity as she fled for the stairs. Gathering his wherewithal, he pursued, following at first the creaking steps of her descension, then the sound of grating iron.

_The lock! _Purcell thought and quickened pace. He reached the bottom of the staircase and cursed at the door left ajar, closing the gap between himself and the portal within a second.

The fisherman pondered a moment, but before he could reach a conclusion there came an explosion of pain at the back of his head. There was a trickle of warmth there also and, as he sank light-headed to the flagstone, he took in the sight of Vivienne. She was standing confident, a triumphant smile on her lips and the poker for the hearth in her hands.

* * *

She was disappointed to see Purcell stir so soon; she thought she had hit him hard enough to knock him out for a good few hours and yet here he was reviving even before she had finished binding him. At the disheartening flickering of his eyelids, Vivienne hastily stoppered his mouth with a cloth gag, the knot resting (not entirely unintentionally) upon the bloody welt at the base of his skull. When she was done she checked the remaining binds were secure and dragged Purcell's writhing weight to a corner by the hearth. He resisted, groaned and thrashed as best he could, but the sudden appearance of a familiar silver blade put a stop to his protestations. He watched as his captor lowered herself onto the bench, eyes steady and gloating.

"Since you are so concerned with manners, Monsieur Purcell, I will thank you for a most eventful evening."

The blade danced gracefully in her hands as she spoke, performing tiny pirouettes on her finger tips and somersaults over her palms. Purcell watched on, fascinated, terrified. He had greatly underestimated this woman, that much was true. Vivienne shifted her gaze from him, for moments, transfixed in silence herself, by the black stone handle. Then, quite suddenly, the blade was returned to its customary place and Vivienne stood to turn down the hearth.

When there were only dying embers to light her way she crossed to the door, opened it and stepped through.

"Do not worry, Monsieur…" She chimed, her voice silver with innocence, "…I shall return this night and…I think, I shall stay after all."

Purcell refuted this as best he could, but his veto was lost in his makeshift muzzle.

Vivienne gave a small wave, stepped out into the waning storm and locked the door behind her.

She turned her mind to business and pocketed the key, stowing it with a handful of coins and a fanciful compass (collectively known as the other items she had taken from Purcell whilst he was unconscious).

After stealing a moment to get her bearings, Vivienne disappeared into the maze of storm bitten streets that was Paris. She took a left, another, crossed a square, turned right, vaulted a stone division or two and eventually found herself at the back door to a house in a row of others much the same. She knocked and waited in the rain for a disgruntled servant woman, carrying a freshly lit lantern to answer her.

"Pardon the intrusion, but may I see your master?" She asked weaving as much sincerity around her words as she could muster. The woman frowned, held the lantern closer to behold her features, gave a shake of her head.

"Master's not in. An' even if he were, he'd not receive anyone at this hour!"

The door threatened to close then, but she flattened her palms against the sodden wood and held it steady.

"Perhaps there has been a mistake." She laughed in an attempt to put the servant at ease, "You see, I have an appointment. Please could you check for the master again and tell him that _Elle_ is here to see him? Sil vous plait?"

The woman's ears visibly pricked at this and she gave a small nod, before pivoting and disappearing into the void of the dwelling, leaving her master's caller with no other option but to cross the threshold into the entrance hall, closing the door decisively behind her with an apprehensive breath.

She waited for what seemed like an age before she heard footsteps in the darkness.

"Elle?" Came the voice from the void.

She squinted, but could see nothing.

"It is I." She replied and cleared her throat when her voice cracked; the voice was different somehow and not what she once knew. Yes, it had been years since their last meeting and they were both bound to have changed with age, but still…

She had no time to question this further as she was swept up in a Herculean embrace.

She was dizzying when he released her.

"Elle! How good of you to return!"

"It is truly great to see you again, Gaspard." She replied, catching her breath between words, "How have you been?"

Just as she had asked this, the servant woman returned, bathing the small space with lantern light once again. She noticed a gauntness to the man's face that had not been before. His eyes were swollen with fatigue and, though it was not conclusive in the dim luminosity she could have sworn his complexion a shade or two fairer.

"Bah!" He waved away her question, draping an arm around her shoulders, "Never mind me, my sweet. How about you? What brings you to Paris?"

She let Gaspard lead through a doorway in the wake of the servant woman. A smile tugged at her lips.

"The storm." she answered, absent-mindedly, only checking herself when the lantern light revealed a quirked eyebrow on behalf of Gaspard.

"And Business."

* * *

**_Thanks once again to everyone who is following this story or has reviewed or even just read it. I am having so much fun writing this at the moment and I think I have finally decided on the Pairing. I won't tell you who it is at the moment, but all will be revealed in good time, my friends. I just hope you guys will not hate me for it..._**

**_Anyway, thanks again and happy reading!_**


	4. Vainqueur

_**Bonjour and welcome to Chapter Four of Fame and War. I have penned this fourth chapter in the mind to give you something to read whilst they postpone the latest episode of The Musketeers until next week. I will probably keep working on the next chapter tonight and should I finish it I will upload that too. But, for now, at least this gives you a little something to help you cope with your withdrawal...Enjoy!**_

_**Oh, and continued thanks to all those who have read and reviewed, favourited or followed this here fic. Your support means the absolute world to me. **_

* * *

**Chapter Four: Vainqueur.**

Treville looked down upon the Garrison courtyard and was glad to see that there was little that commanded his attention. A few musketeers were, it seemed, deep in the thralls of a discussion concerning their amorous activities the previous evening and a further group of three were debating (rather loudly) the correct method to use when duelling with a Red Guard, but for the most part, there was nothing that was amiss.

Treville turned his attention to the archway at the far end and the arrival of his three best soldiers with d'Artagnan (as always) in tow. The Captain allowed himself a small smile before turning and retreating back into his office. He waited a moment or two and emerged again, footsteps purposefully heavy and audible upon the decked balcony. He made a pantomime of scanning the courtyard before fixing his gaze on the newcomers, though he knew they would head for the table lain with sustenance in the form of bread, wine and (when they could procure it, of course) fruit. The four had laid an unspoken claim to the area and the other soldiers appeared not to mind since they were still allowed to take of it what they wished and seat themselves at it when the want arose.

"Athos, Porthos, Aramis, d'Artagnan. My Office. Now." The Captain barked, drinking in the deliciously incredulous glances of the men in question. Treville retreated once again as soon as he took note of their rising to obey.

Athos was the first to rise and headed for the staircase, d'Artagnan followed him, but the other two lingered. Aramis seemed reluctant to leave the small plate he had gathered for himself and Porthos hesitated over a cup of wine.

The former raised an eyebrow, scanning the courtyard for the reactions of his fellow soldiers.

"Do you think they envy us or pity us?" he queried, rising slowly and breaking off a small amount of bread that could be easily consumed on his way to the office.

"If they had any sense…" replied Porthos with a short laugh and a shrug. He took a moment to press the cup to his lips and downed the contents.

No sooner had he returned the vessel to the table top than another prompt from Treville echoed around them, even despite the multitude of their fellow musketeers. The courtyard fell silent and the pair hastily made their way up the steps beneath the collective critical gaze of their comrades.

* * *

Treville raised an eyebrow at Aramis and Porthos as the pair finally arrived, moving to stand in line with Athos and d'Artgagnan. The young Gascon smirked sideways and Aramis, still chewing, responded with a discreet shrug of his shoulders, oblivious of (or simply ignoring) the Captain's pointed stare.

"Nice of you to join us, gentlemen." came the familiar stony voice, though it was clear Treville was loathe to linger on such a trivial reprimand. He continued swiftly, not even entertaining the opportunity for rebuttal or excuse.

"I have an assignment for you all." He began, electing to ignore the cheerful spark in the eyes of both Porthos and Aramis as they, no doubt, exchanged telepathic avowals of '_Surprise, surprise'._

Treville gave a restrained shake of his head and continued, "One which must be handled with no small amount of subtlety."

The four men seemed to straighten in unison at this, all at once focused and attentive.

"There are rumours of some volatile documents having made their way into Paris; schematics to be precise. I need you to investigate these rumours and, if they are found to be true, track down those responsible and seize the plans."

"Plans for what?" Porthos pried, his dark eyes now devoid of their jovial gleam and keeping, instead, the stoicism of duty and honour.

Treville shook his head in resignation, "I'm not sure, though the popular theory is weapons. Something new and dangerous and - if they fall into the wrong hands - devastating."

"And where did this information come from?" asked Athos, guarded as ever.

"Etienne Levesque; a musketeer and a good man."

"And where is Levesque now?" posed the young Gascon, expecting the answer to come from the Captain. Instead, it was Aramis who answered.

"I know of Levesque and his whereabouts and I would be glad to speak with him, should the need arise."

The Captain gave an approving nod, "I don't need to tell you that the greater control we have on this, the better. We were fortunate that, if they do exist, these plans have come to France and not to the shores of our enemies, but still…there are those in this country who should never see them."

The musketeers shared knowing nods and, even though the name was never uttered, they collectively summoned the image of the Cardinal to their minds' eyes.

* * *

Porthos turned his gaze skywards as he and his trio of comrades emerged from Treville's office. He found it difficult to believe that only four days ago the now azure heavens had been a tumultuous oyster grey, forecasting a storm that even the musketeers had refrained from braving. They descended the stairs and headed for the archway.

"What's the plan then?" He asked, turning his gaze to Athos.

It was no secret that Athos assumed the role of leader when it came to the ensemble and Porthos did not know whether it was the man's seniority or his calculating nature that made him so easy to follow, but he rarely steered them wrong and so he was content with the arrangement. An opinion also shared, it seemed, by Aramis and d'Artagnan. He watched as the former Comte de la Fere, halted and turned to them.

"Aramis, take d'Artagnan and go speak with Levesque. I'm not disputing that he is a good man, but it may pay to make sure. See if you can find out how he has come to know of the plans and what, if anything, the Red Guards know about then."

Aramis nodded in agreement, sweeping an arm to pat d'Artagnan on the shoulder. The Gascon frowned and mouthed the word, _'Ow' _which only succeeded in summoning an impish grin to his assailant's lips.

Athos then shifted his gaze to the left, "Porthos, see if you can't find anything out from the taverns, particularly on the river front." He paused, noting the haughty expression of triumph cross his friend's features. He rolled his eyes, "You are there on musketeer business, Porthos, and that means no drinking and no gambling."

"Very well." the musketeer replied, though his self-satisfaction seemed not to wane.

"And I will speak with the guards at the city gates and docks. They should have the names of any newcomers to Paris within the last week. We'll meet back here tomorrow morning."

The small group dispersed, with Aramis and d'Artagnan taking a right out of the archway and Athos taking the left. Porthos passed Aramis an d'Artagnan on his own path.

"I like that plan." He laughed.

"You would." Chided Aramis, playfully.

D'Artagnan treated the dark-skinned musketeer to a condescending smile, "Ah, but Athos said no drinking and no gambling."

"That he did, my young friend, that he did." Came the reply, the speaker looking crestfallen for a moment or two before perking up and breaking away from his comrades. He side stepped, heading for an alleyway.

"Still a good plan, though." He winked before disappearing into the passage.

"What's he so happy about?" d'Artagnan pondered aloud, listening as his counterpart gave a disbelieving sigh.


	5. Caché

**_Here it is; the next chapter of Fame and War and the longest too, so far. This one was quite a fun one to write and I hope you enjoy it. _**

**_Thank you to anyone following, favouring, reviewing or just lurking (you still clicked on the link, so you deserve credit too!), I am even more motivated to write this because I know people are waiting for the next chapters and I hate to disappoint people..._**

**_Extra special thanks go to Nomadd and GhostWriter84 for, not only their kinds words and encouragement, but also for taking the time to message me and chat. Oh, and these guys also figured out the future pairing!_**

**_Anyway, I think I should probably just let you read this now. Enjoy!_**

* * *

**Chapter Five: Caché**

D'Artagnan turned with mouth agape and brow furrowed as the door was answered by a boy no older than seven years of age.

"Did we get the right place?" He asked Aramis as the scruffy blonde child stared up at them, wide-eyed.

Aramis could feel confusion etch itself into his own features and it was not until the boy half-turned and cried 'oncle' did the Musketeer finally grasp what was going on. He gave a laugh and nodded to his young companion. Aramis was about to ask the child's permission to enter when he heard footsteps approaching. He straightened and smiled widely, ready to offer greeting just as an unassuming, unshaven man rounded the doorframe and swept the two men inside. He directed them through to the kitchen area, but he lingered on the porch a moment before closing the door, his gaze shifting from one end of the street to the other, only settling a moment on the angled terrace opposite and the foremost dwelling he had become accustomed to study.

D'Artagnan felt he and Aramis had been kept waiting for far too long before the strange man finally appeared to notice the pair and, even then, he only spared a nod as he passed to the boy, crouching to reach his eye height.

"Now Jacques, what have I told you about answering the door?" he tested, his voice low and smooth, smoky and deep. The boy found the floor with his gaze, chewing on the nail of his thumb.

"Don't answer it by myself." He mumbled.

"That's right. And what else did I say to do while you're here?"

"You…um…You said I should call you 'Papa'."

"Right."

D'Artagnan felt his breath hitch in his throat as the man's expression darkened a little. He gave a searching sideways glance to Aramis who seemed not to have noticed and had, in fact, crossed to a dresser, inspecting the bottles and jars arranged there.

The boy's uncle spoke then, his voice suddenly cold, "Then why didn't you?"

A moment's silence tainted the air around them and the young Gascon opened his mouth to speak before Jacques beat him to it.

"I don't know, oncle…I forgot."

The man slowly raised an arm, fingers curling.

"Well, you know what happens every time you forget…"

"Yes, uncle…"

D'Artagnan set his brow and started forth, only to be halted by a hand on his shoulder. He turned to see Aramis, treating him to a shake of the head and a frown that suggested he should know better than to assume such things. Then, as if to illustrate the musketeer's mute reprimand, the man swept the boy, squealing with delight, into the air. D'Artagnan relaxed at the sound of Jacques' laughter as his uncle tickled him and ruffled his blonde mop. After a few moments the boy squirmed free and ran to the doorway, sporting the widest grin the Gascon had ever seen on anyone, much less a child.

"Run along now and get cleaned up; your mother will be back soon and she'll have something to say about the state of you."

"Oui, Oncle." Jacques replied spritely, obediently heading for the stairs and trying in vain to smooth out his hair with his hands.

Once the boy was gone his uncle straightened and fixed his impromptu guests with a warm but crooked smile. The expression gathered the skin across his cheekbones, his green eyes becoming little more than small dark slits. The lower part of his face was mostly obscured by a beard the same ebony hue as his hair, both of which, d'Artagnan suspected, had not been properly groomed in a long while. This disregard for personal appearance seemed to follow through to his attire as well, since he had chosen a shirt that may once have been white but was now grey and stained, a pair of scuffed brown boots and trousers saturated with dust and worn at the knees. Despite this, the man seemed in good health and supported a slender, muscular frame.

Aramis stepped forward and allowed the man to draw him into a fond embrace.

"You know," the musketeer began, pulling away with a chuckle, "I'm not entirely sure this is what the Captain meant when he said 'blend in'."

"What can I say?" The man replied with a shrug, "I'm a perfectionist."

D'Artagnan gave something of an uncertain smile as both men turned their gazes to him simultaneously. He felt Aramis' gloved hand collide with his shoulder and the bruise from his earlier gesture of camaraderie ached in protest.

"D'Artagnan, I'd like to introduce Etienne Levesque, of the King's Musketeers."

"Pleased to meet you, Monsieur." The Gascon offered, outstretching a hand in greeting. Levesque took and shook it fervently, before turning back to Aramis, an eyebrow arched.

"The newest prospect?" he asked, to which there was a nod in response. He turned back, "Don't fret yourself, lad; you'll be a musketeer soon enough, especially if you've Aramis and his friends for mentors." At this, he finally released the young man's hand.

Levesque heaved a sigh, deflating his smile, "But, I doubt you're here to listen to me talk idly; you've come about the plans, I'd wager."

He waited for the nod in confirmation from Aramis before leading the two men to a table and chairs pushed into the alcove opposite the doorway. Before he sat himself, Levesque plucked a bottle from the dresser and scavenged three cups. He began to divide the contents of the bottle between the vessels.

"What do you know of them?" pried d'Artagnan, gratefully receiving a beaker from his host.

Levesque waited until each man had a cup before corking the bottle neck and taking the seat opposite the young Gascon. He shook his head in resignation.

"I'm afraid, not much. I caught a few murmurs from some of the lesser upstanding residents of the street. One or two mentioned Monsieur Renaud, but that's not exactly a surprising revelation. "

Aramis gave a nod that suggested he had thought as much, but d'Artagnan could not help but feel somewhat left out.

"Monsieur Renaud?" He pressed, his gaze shifting between the two musketeers expectantly. In the end it was Aramis who answered.

"Monsieur Gaspard Renaud. Retired red guard and all round unscrupulous character." He offered, with a disgusted wrinkling of his nose.

"He'll do anything for anyone…" Levesque verified, taking over from Aramis when he paused for a sip of wine, "…so long as there's money to be made. Still keeps in contact with the Cardinal, though."

D'Artagnan shrugged, "Not surprising; I'm sure Richelieu's coffers run deep enough to keep a man like that interested indefinitely…and what with him being former red guard and all…"

The musketeers murmured something in agreement, before allowing a silence to ensconce them.

"Has Renaud received any visitors, recently?" probed Aramis, catching sight of a furrowed brow on the young Gascon's part. One side of his mouth twitched in jest, "He occupies a house on the other side of the street, he's a dishonest and crooked former member of the Cardinal's guard and Levesque has been posted here to keep an eye on him." He stated matter-of-factly.

The man across from d'Artagnan tried, rather unsuccessfully, to stifle a laugh, "Keep up, lad! You've got to have a sharp mind to be a musketeer; best start practising now!"

Aramis joined his old friend and d'Artagnan was ashamed to feel heat in his cheeks at the apparent hilarity at his expense, but he drowned his embarrassment in the cup of wine and waited patiently for the men to cease their mirth. He did not have to wait long.

"As far as visitors go, there's only been one that I would call out of the ordinary." Levesque imparted, drinking in his guests' impatient expressions.

"Oh?" Aramis Coaxed.

"Oui. A young woman. About four days ago now."

D'Artagnan scoffed, earning himself twin guises of suspicion from Aramis and Levesque. He faltered a little beneath their gaze.

"Is that entirely unusual?" The Gascon queried, his face twisting almost to match those of the other two.

Levesque gave an instructing nod, "It is for Renaud. His interests lie in money, always have and, I suspect, always will. He leaves the house only to deal with potential ventures and, when anyone unexpected knocks, they are more often than not turned away hastily."

"But this woman was allowed to enter?" Pondered the musketeer opposite, leaning back in his seat and draining the vessel in his grip.

Levesque offered a confirming nod, "Don't know what she said, but she waltzed on in there like she owned the place. The funny thing being, the rumours started the very next day."

"Did you see her leave?" came the Gascon's enquiry, suddenly eager to prove himself in the eyes of the two musketeers, "Which direction did she go?"

Levesque heaved a sigh and his shoulders sank a little, "I caught a glimpse of her whilst I was waiting on the corner over to the East. She vaulted a couple of walls, but I lost her by Monsieur Fortin's Boulangerie; by then the storm had picked up again. My best guess would be that she was headed for the riverfront, but I can't be sure."

"That's definitely something we should look into…" plotted Aramis, checking himself when a thought crossed his mind, "could you describe her at all?"

This earned him a resigned shrug in response, "She wore a dark hooded cloak over a blue dress, but that's all I could see."

The three men sat for a moment or two, silently devising their next move. In the end this was decided by a cry from Jacques for his uncle, no doubt bored and seeking distraction.

D'Artagnan and Aramis rose to leave and, after a fond farewell, found themselves on the darkening street outside, headed subconsciously for the Boulangerie the hidden musketeer had mentioned.


	6. Gemme

**_Wow, will you look at the length of this chapter!? 2023 words? Guess I got just a little bit carried away. I could have kept on writing too, but its now about 2am here and I have to get up early in the morning so I should probably get some sleep now. _**

**_Anyway, once again, thank you to those of you who are reviewing and adding this to various lists; you guys are what is keeping me writing, so please keep it up! Enjoy this chapter please, I enjoyed writing it..._**

* * *

**Chapter Six: Gemme**

Porthos had spent the better part of the afternoon venturing in and out of a selection of the city's taverns. He knew it would be quite impossible to investigate every inn in Paris in such a short amount of time, so he selected the ones nearest the river and, of those, the ones likely to attract the most immoral and disreputable of the city's populace.

But he had unearthed little and the task was fast becoming tiresome, made even worse by the fact that he had been forbidden from drinking or gambling. This in itself made blending in difficult and he had made the conscious decision in no less that 4 hostelries so far, to make a hasty retreat after receiving murderous glares from the assembled clientele (yes, he was a musketeer, but he was only one musketeer and if it were just him against a whole congregation of potential criminals? Even Porthos didn't like those odds).

True, he had decided to proceed without his blue cloak and fleur-de-lis emblazoned pauldron, but he was still acutely aware of the fact he didn't fit in.

Perhaps he would have done so, once upon a time, way back when; before Aramis had found him, beaten and half-dead in an alleyway he had no reason to be in, before he had trained and fought and strived to make something of himself and before the musketeers.

He wore no declarations of his allegiance but, it was written for all to see in his face, his gait, his voice.

Porthos stared upwards with disdain at the wooden sign swinging from its wrought iron bracket. The rectangular plaque was painted an oily green and framed in a ring of dull gold. The tavern's name was decorated in an impressive cursive of the same colour and encircled the depiction of three foxes, one small and two larger. The smaller of the trio was caught in the moment of leaping for some unseen target whilst the other two looked on, straight backed and feline. 'L'auberge de renard' it read.

Porthos headed for the entrance with a yawn, inwardly cursing Athos for taking the fun out of visiting taverns.

However, this train of thought diminished somewhat as Porthos traversed the steps into the den. Something akin to a jig floated from the strings of a violin to his right and the whole place was aglow with a warmth the musketeer had not sensed in any of his previous visitations that day. He soon realised that this was largely due to the calibre of patron found here; aside from a few shifty looking characters tucked away in a shadowy recess at the far side of the room and a pair of men and their paid mistresses at a table near the centre, there was no one here who he would have called particularly unscrupulous.

Porthos grunted as someone pushed past him and he found himself recanting these thoughts at the action; there were two men standing in front of him now, two men in red cotton shirts and black leather tabards, two men of the Cardinal's guard.

They had obviously had a similar idea as him and had left the more conspicuous elements of their uniform behind in order to blend in, but when your attire consists of red, red and more red, this is not always achievable. Porthos' brow furrowed as the red guards leaned in to speak with one another. He strained to hear their conversation, but the violin and raucous merriment drowned any hope of that happening. The musketeer's focus was drawn beyond the pair suddenly at a minute nod from the one at the left. He followed his gaze and came to rest on a lone woman seated at a table on the far wall. She was wearing a blue dress that didn't quite fit right and a dark heavy cloak was draped over the chair to her left. He couldn't make out the colour of her eyes, since her attention was held by a wooden bowl in front of her and this caused her brunette tresses to fall across her face.

The red guards turned their attention to the bar and finally moved out of Porthos' way. He seize the opportunity to make a beeline for the lone woman, not merely because she was being watched by red guards and he wanted to know why, but also because, even though he had forbidden Porthos drinking and gambling, Athos had said nothing about women…

* * *

She sat by herself at the table, nursing a jug of water and bowl of thick, meaty broth. It didn't taste as good as she remembered but, she reasoned, nor did anything else. She was glad of the sustenance and, even though she was eating alone, the bustle of people around her.

There was a violinist, at the far wall beneath a latticed window and positioned quite awkwardly between the curve of the bar and steps leading from the door. Occasionally, he would be jostled and miss a note, but he was doing well, despite the distractions, to provide the throng with a lively melody to which some danced and others sang.

There were other groups who did not seem to even hear the music, engrossed in their own conversations at tables and in corners, palms curled defensively around frothing tankards.

The room itself was a moderate size, both large enough to accommodate an affluent number of people yet small enough to be bathed in the cool twilight haze offered by the solitary window.

A serving girl flitted around, deftly dodging the merrymakers with handfuls of lighted lamps and candles in small pots and dishes for the tables. With each one she placed, the air grew warmer and thicker, chasing the grey dusk from the room and exchanging it for a honey glow.

She turned her focus to her spoon and bowl, trying to quell the feeling of exposure she felt in such a crowded room. She knew she did not belong here and it was something she had realised almost as soon as she had entered. She had seen it in the raised eyebrows of the innkeeper's wife as she ordered supper. She had caught a glimpse of it in the eyes of the serving girl when she had brought her food, asking if she was expecting anyone else (to which she had replied in the negative). She even trapped the tail end of a disparaging whisper at her expense. Surveying the room, she realised that they were all right; apart from the serving girl and the innkeeper's wife there were only two other women in the room and they were both gaudy and loud and, she suspected, being paid for their company. And here she was, sitting without company at a table made for four, not a servant, proprietor or prostitute and not belonging.

She might have belonged, once upon a time, way back when…but not now.

With this thought in mind, her appetite fled and she pushed the bowl away from her, surveying the surrounding space with cheerless focus. She poured herself a glass of water and sipped, turning her thoughts to more buoyant matters, like the name she would like if someone should ask her now. After pondering this for a moment or two she settled on Romaine, thinking it fitting for such a situation; if she did not belong, she might as well be a Queen.

She felt the ghost of a smile tug at her lips as she thought back on the first name she had given upon her arrival in Paris and the man she had given it to. She wondered what that man was doing now, if he was still attempting to break free of his bonds or whether he had given up, weakened by the fatigue inflicted by the cold flagstone floor or the fact that he hadn't eaten in four days. She felt a pang of guilt at this, but swallowed it back with a mouthful of water; starving him hadn't been a part of the plan and she had tried to feed him, but what was she to do when every time she removed his gag, he squealed like a stuck pig?

She jumped suddenly as an arm invaded her peripherals, finding purchase on the back of her chair. The man the arm was attached to leaned in as if he was about to plant a kiss on her cheek and she was about to protest when he spoke in hushed tones.

"You're being watched, so do yourself a favour and follow my lead."

He leaned away then, fixing her with searching dark eyes which relaxed when she gave a curt nod. The man slid into the opposing chair and took up the glass in a gloved hand, he raised a subtle eyebrow and waited for the woman across from him to give a permitting nod, before filling the vessel and taking a swig.

As he lowered the glass, she took a moment to study him. His eyes were an indecisive colour; brown, but when the flicker of candlelight caught them they shifted to something lighter (instinctively, she called the hue burnt amber) and settled beneath a low but soft brow. He had darker skin than anyone she had seen in a long while and a tight mass of obsidian curls atop his head that matched his beard and moustache. There was a thin puckered line impressed vertically across his left eye and a gold ring dangled from his earlobe on the same side. His broad shoulders were encompassed by an ornate, tanned, leather jacket with a high neck, the collar of which was embellished with circular pieces of hide that put her in mind of fish scales. She found herself stifling a smile in reminiscence; he reminded her of someone she once knew, long ago and far away.

"What's your name?" The stranger asked suddenly and quietly, waking her from her reverie.

"Richelle." Came her unexpected answer and she fought hard the urge to correct herself, knowing he would think her either mad or up to something immoral if she did so. Though, he appeared not to notice any sign of her inward debate and offered a short nod in greeting.

"Porthos." he stated simply, stealing a moment's survey of the boisterous hall in as discreet a manner as he could muster. Richelle watched his gaze linger a moment at the bar and two men in red and black apparel. She felt her own eyes narrow in scrutiny at the pair and only tore her gaze away at a the sudden short laugh of her impromptu companion.

"Astute, aren't you?" He chuckled.

Richelle bristled a little at his compliment, fixing him with a raised eyebrow, "And you are surprised?"

"A little."

"Why? You don't even know me." Richelle folded her arms defiantly, the corners of her lips twitching in indecision, "Or are you saying you are surprised because I am a woman and, as such, am not allowed to be astute? That there some unwritten code of social conduct that dictates that my gender must be simple and simpering and, even if we are astute, we are to keep our astuteness a secret lest we surprise the men folk?"

As soon as the words passed her lips and the table fell silent, Richelle began to regret her outburst. She did not know if it was the simple fact that she was tired of having no one to talk to or the fact that Porthos was a stranger and the pair were unlikely to see each other again, but the rant had charged unbidden from it's ivory cage, diving from her tongue word by word and falling into perfect sequence in the space between them. Something cold and hard dropped into the pit of her stomach and with it the realisation that she should not have been so reckless.

Richelle twisted her right leg beneath the silk petticoats she was still getting used to, discreetly testing that the steel of her dagger was in its rightful place should she need it.


	7. Poursuite

_**Firstly, I'm sorry for the wait for this chapter, but I do have a good excuse mainly involving university assignments and moving house.**_

_**Secondly, sorry for the quality of this chapter. It is not my best, but at least it's something right. I wanted to get this posted since it might be a while until the next update, purely because I am not sure what's going on with my internet when we get moved and I will also be going on holiday week after next and, though I am certain the place has wifi, I cannot be sure it is any good. So apologies in advance for that.**_

_**Anyway, I hope you are not too disappointed in this chapter. Things will be getting more interesting soon, I promise. **_

* * *

**Chapter Seven: Poursuite**

The room Athos found himself in was small, musty and dark. The walls were lined, floor to ceiling, with hardy bookcases, adorned with a multitude of uniformed leather bound ledgers. There was a desk not a foot in front of the musketeer and this, though being constructed from a sturdy wood, was beginning to bow beneath a multitude of open and ink-blotted tomes and a haphazardly strewn array of quills, paperweights and inkwells.

The only light in the chamber radiated from a hearth to the right of the desk and Athos found himself moving to stand before it whilst casting an indifferent eye across the gaping books.

"This one here." grated a voice from the doorway behind Athos, accompanied by the whisper of fabric on flagstone. The musketeer turned and backed himself up against the mantelpiece as far as he could without burning the edge of his cloak, watching as the bow-backed old man shrouded in coarse woollen robes the colour of mud, shuffled towards the bureau. Bony fingers unfurled a ledger and pointed to the relevant pages. Athos leant in, perusing the already yellowing pages with a conscientious eye.

After a few moments, he outstretched a hand and turned the page, casting his gaze on those that followed. He repeated the action twice more until the entries became fewer and farther between, eventually fading into blank leaves.

"I'm going to need copies of these." Athos started, meeting the old man's gaze. He expected a sigh in resignation, but instead took in an acquiescing nod.

"Of course. Though I would be happy to relinquish the ledger itself, if that would be of more use."

"That would be most helpful, thank you."

The old man shook his head, pulled a rag from a fold of his robe and brought it to his mouth. A series of wet and chesty coughs shook the man's form then and Athos felt his eyes narrow in an expression of detached scrutiny.

"It's nothing." The scribe offered eventually, out of breath. He stowed the piece of cloth and wiped his hands on his robes, he made a move to pick up the ledger, but Athos gathered it up for himself.

"What are you looking for, anyway? Not a murderer is it?"

The musketeer tucked the book under his arm and sidled around the old man, making his way to the door.

"Something like that." came the reply as he lifted the latch and stepped out into the suddenly dark courtyard beyond. He could hear the whinny of horses in the stables across the square and the ragged intakes of breath from the posted guards, trying to draw warmth from the chill nocturnal zephyrs.

Athos waited for the old man to come to stand beside him, before turning back, "Thank you for your co-operation, Monsieur. I will be sure to return the ledger to you once the matter has been concluded."

"Always happy to help." the scribe replied, taking a breath and digging for his rag again.

Athos spared the man a nod in parting before turning his attention to the city gate and the sound of approaching hooves. He rounded the corner to see five horses slowing into a trot at the bidding of their riders. As they neared the gateway, the guards approached and the flicker of torch light came to rest on the riders' faces.

Athos found himself nearing, taking in what he could in the dim light.

The riders were all men and were bedecked in old finery with cloaks of dusty greens and faded reds, sashes of sunset orange and pagan purple and scuffed boots of hard-wearing black leather. Two of them wore tri-corn hats, with feathers of speckled brown and white tucked into them. The others seemed content to go bare-headed, though one - the largest man with a coal black stare - had seen fit to tie a twisted bandanna above his brow.

"Dismount and state your business." called one of the guards.

The men obeyed and slid from their mounts with relative ease. The foremost man of the group - and the one Athos assumed to be the leader - stepped forth a little, absent-mindedly smoothing the nose of his nag gently.

"Unpleasant business, I'm afraid." He offered, a short laugh in its wake as he caught sight of the suspicious glares of the guards. Athos stepped forward too, making himself known in case these strangers were thinking of causing any trouble.

"And what's that, Monsieur?" He pried, voice calm and polite.

The man eyed him dubiously for a moment, before removing his hat and clutching it to his bosom in a show of reverence, "We're here to see a friend of ours, but we also might be arranging a funeral."

Athos thought he could see the glimmer of a tear in the stranger's eye.

"She's unwell, you see. Not expected to live beyond the week…"

The musketeer became acutely aware of the itch of eyes upon him and turned to find the guards' expectant attentions in his direction. He gave a permitting nod and crossed the stranger's path on his way back into the city.

"Very well, be sure to leave your names with the guards…" A glint of steel caught his eye as he passed the man and the side of his mouth twitched knowingly, "…And I trust we will have no trouble on your visit."

Though this was not a question, the leader deigned to answer anyway, "None at all, Monsieur…if I can help it."

He gave something of a chuckle as the musketeer walked away, but his knitted brow aimed itself square at his back until he could no longer see him for the dark.

"Oi." He began, addressing the smallest of the two guards, "Who was that?"

"Athos, of the King's Musketeers." came the faltering reply, broken by the fact the guard was uncertain if he should have shared such information with this stranger. He shook these thoughts from his mind and turned his attention, instead to the issue of duty.

"But never mind him, Monsieur. I'll be needing to know your name, though…"

"Perrault." The stranger acquiesced with a smile, "Capitaine Jean Perrault."

* * *

Porthos stared across at Richelle, taken aback at her outburst and - though he would never have admitted it - just a little bit terrified. Her eyes were unmoving, trained on his own and harbouring an anger more than that which Porthos could take credit for.

For Richelle, it was almost as if the tavern had emptied at her reprimand; the only sound she could hear was the quickening beat of her heart, readying for escape.

She calculated, trying to remember the layout of the tables and exactly how far she would have to run in order to be free of this man, all the while careful to hold her gaze steady.

She'd have to leave her cloak behind, of course; any attempt to gather it would cost her precious seconds. Perhaps she could throw it over him in a swipe at disorientation. Would she have time to sweep aside her petticoats and take a hold of her dagger, before he righted himself? If she did manage to catch him off guard, what then? With the number of patrons around, she was sure a knife held to anyone's throat was sure to be notice by someone.

If she ran, would he be able to catch her? He was tall and muscular, yes, but that did not mean he was slow on his feet.

A chuckle bubbled in Porthos' throat, grounding Richelle. All at once the murmur of voices and the whine of tuned strings returned to the air. She felt her brow furrow, her mouth open with a will to question such a reaction, but the man across from her merely widened his smile.

"Angry, aren't you?" he teased, relieved to see the strange woman's expression soften at this. She leant forward a little then, running an ashamed hand through her hair. She looked fatigued all of a sudden, her cheeks a little paler, her lids a little heavier.

"Please, forgive me." She sighed finally, her gaze finding the tabletop, "I must be tired. The last few days have been trying so far and I am afraid I have not yet recovered myself."

"You've done nothing that needs forgiving." Porthos offered, pausing a moment as the serving girl approached, removing the half-empty bowl of broth.

When she was gone he continued, "You're passionate; I like that in a woman."

Richelle was taken aback at this statement, but found herself preening a little beneath Porthos' gaze. She studied him a moment more, before tilting her head to one side in curiosity.

"Who are you, Porthos?"

There was another chuckle on behalf of her new friend, "What do you mean?"

"Who are you? Why is it you were so suspicious of our friends over there?" Richelle finished with a short illustrative nod. The red guards at the bar seemed oblivious of their blown cover.

Porthos took a few moments to answer, bidding a proximate silence ensconce the table, during which he refilled the glass and sipped.

"What do you think?" Came his eventual response, at which Richelle leaned back in her chair with a smile in self-satisfaction. She clasped her hands in her lap and looked the man opposite up and down.

"Well…given your dislike of the two red guard gentlemen at the bar and the fact you saw me and thought I needed rescuing…my guess would be…musketeer." Her smile widened as Porthos nodded, impressed.

"Not bad. Not bad."

"But, I suppose the real question is, what is a musketeer doing without his uniform in 'L'auberge de renard'?"

"Well now…if I told you that…" Porthos let his voice trail off, giving a shrug of his shoulders. The pair shared laughter at this statement, though it was neither loud nor long-lived.

"What about you?" Porthos posed eventually, "Do you live in Paris?"

Richelle shook her head, plucking the glass from the musketeer's gloved grip in an action that he seemed to inwardly approve of. After taking a sip or two, she returned it to the tabletop with a shrug of her shoulders. Her gaze was transfixed by the cup as if she was deep in remembrance.

"No, I'm just tying up a few lose ends…" She seemed to falter a moment and her countenance shifted to indecision. Porthos was careful not to interrupt, figuring the woman had good reason. After a few seconds she seemed to make up her mind and opened her mouth to speak.

"I used to live in Paris. I grew up here, in fact." Richelle's eyes flickered upwards in delicious anticipation, glad when she found comprehension in the musketeer's eyes.

"Here?" He probed, lifting a hand in a gesture he hoped would represent the entire tavern.

Richelle nodded, her focus bobbing dreamily above the heads of the tavern's customers "My parents owned this place years ago. I grew up here. We were happy..." Her attention returned to the table at a short scoff from Porthos. Her brows knitted together in silent interrogation.

"Prove it." the musketeer coaxed, a playful spark in his dark eyes. He watched Richelle ponder this for a moment or two, before outstretching her left hand and take a handful of the cloak beside her.

"Very well. I'll show you."

Before standing, she took one last survey of the chamber, her gaze held momentarily by the red guards at the bar.

"If we hurry, we might be able to give our friends there, the slip." She realised.

Porthos gave a nod and the pair stood in unison, careful to prevent the screeching of their chair legs on the floor. They began to pick their way slowly through the mess of tables and they were both grateful when they passed two newcomers making a beeline for the space they had just vacated. With any hope, the new arrivals would buy them a few seconds head start if the red guards look up from their drinks.

Both Porthos and Richelle breathed a sigh of relief when they left the tavern and were embraced by the chill after dark air.

The musketeer watched as the strange woman swept herself into her cloak and started off to the right.

"This way." She hissed, despite the fact that they had not yet been followed.


End file.
